Definitely Not Fate
by esking
Summary: It wasn't fate or some alignment of the stars that led Jack Dawson to Rose DeWitt-Bukater that first night on the Ship of Dreams. It was just his job. Reposting.
1. Chapter 1

**This story was booted from the site a while back because I said shit in the summary. Apologies if I offended anyone. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. So now I'm reposting and taking the opportunity to edit some of the typos that were in the first draft.**

**Definitely Not Fate**

**Hello there, dear reader. This is my take on Titanic, because I essentially see spies and conspiracies everywhere, and this is what happened.**

Jack sat down at the circular table in his tiny London apartment, and slit open a thick envelope which he had just received from his drop six streets over. Out fell several pieces of paper.

The first was a White Star Cruise Line third class ticket for the Titanic. Jack lit a cigarette, unimpressed. Still cheapskates. The second was a portrait of a young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen, looking for all the world like a porcelain doll. Her skin was a perfect, even white, which contrasted strikingly against fiery red hair, perfectly coifed and curled down one side of her face. She looked terribly boring to Jack. The portrait was subtitled "Rose DeWitt-Bukater, 1912".

Next came DeWitt-Bukater's history, which detailed how Mr. DeWitt had left the mother and daughter penniless, and swamped in debt. There was a portrait of the family, all looking serious and somber, and one with Rose and man labeled as Caledon Hockley, her fiancé. Jack was no idiot. He could infer just by observing the arrogant, privileged air with which Hockley posed that _his _was money intended to save the DeWitt-Bukater women from destitution. Jack raised his eyebrows. The man looked like a nightmare.

Also in the envelope was Jack's legend. He'd grown up in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, which irritated him greatly. He'd always felt that his indefinable suave allure was diminished by a half when he had an American accent. His parents had died when he was fifteen, he had no siblings or prospects, and was an aspiring artist. Again. Jack wondered when the agency would hire somebody with imagination to write the covers.

The next sheet of paper was the mission, attached to it was a sketch of the enemy agent, traveling under the name Spicer Lovejoy. He was an older man, with a bulbous nose and a crooked jaw. The mission itself was simple: keep Rose DeWitt-Bukater alive, preferably with minimal contact, until she reached New York, at which time another agent would take over the case.

Jack thought the envelope was empty, but as he prepared to take out a match and burn it, he noticed a tiny folded slip of paper stuck in the corner. Jack pulled it out gently and examined the familiar handwriting.

_Jack, _it read

_Be careful. See you soon._

_-Dom_

Jack smiled, partly because of the letter, which was written in Dom's usual, brusque tone, but mostly at the prospect of seeing his brother again. It had been a long two years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**First Encounter (and a Couple After That)**

**So now I'm back after a hundred million years, sorry about that. Someone expressed confusion in the first chapter about Jack's siblings. Jack the agent, who is the real Jack, has a brother named Dom. Jack Dawson, the American cover whom he will be impersonating for the purpose of his mission, has no siblings. Sorry for any confusion. Enjoy chapter 2. **

The plan was for Jack Dawson to win his tickets in a poker game. Heaven forbid he come by his tickets in a legally condonable manner. So he'd hired two Swedes whom he'd met that morning in a dockside bar, and offered them $400 to stage a poker game with him, so that he could win the tickets. They obviously thought he was insane, but greed triumphed, and they agreed to the game. Neither was sure what he was supposed to do, and ended up making a lot of forced, awkward comments like, "I can't believe you bet our tickets!". Jack was accompanied by his back-up, a Puerto Rican named Fabrizio, who, rumor had it, had only recently returned from an intelligence run in Italy. War was brewing, everyone at the agency knew it. It was only a matter of time before the heat bubbled over.

The game went on longer than Jack had anticipated, but he couldn't say anything to the Swedes. Finally, he set down his hand and scooped up his winnings (which he had provided), and, upon learning from the overly smug bar-keeper that the Titanic was departing in five minutes, sprinted from the bar, Fabrizio hot on his heels.

They pushed frantically through the jubilant crowd which covered every inch of dock, disregarding the angry shouts and curses in twenty different languages. Jack secretly felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, contemplating the astronomical number of faces he would have to sort through to find Rose DeWitt-Bukater's. They made it on board just as the boat was pulling away from the dock, and made their way to steerage, to a room occupied by another Swede whom Jack had hired.

**oOo**

Jack first saw Rose DeWitt-Bukater in person that afternoon on the deck. She looked much less demur in real life. Her cheeks were flushed, her brow wrinkled in anger. He stared up at her, memorizing the face. He realized that his job to protect her was going to be complicated by the upper deck, as common folk like him were not allowed up there. He'd have to acquire himself a nicer set of clothes if he were to keep an eye on DeWitt-Bukater for more than a glimpse.

One of Jack's companions, an outspoken Irishman, caught him staring and followed his gaze. He laughed. Shaking his head, he said, "Forget it, boyo. You'd like as have angels fly out of arse as get next to the likes of her."

Jack didn't bother to say that he did not feel romantically towards the girl, knowing that the other wouldn't believe him. He merely turned back and continued to watch DeWitt-Bukater. A moment later, she was joined by an angry man in an expensive tuxedo. Jack recognized him instantly as Caledon Hockley, the rich husband-to-be. He shuddered inwardly, watching Hockley grab Rose's arm. He acted as though he owned her. Quite despite himself, Jack felt a twinge of protectiveness manifest itself as a strong desire to punch Hockley in the face.

Later that night, Jack lay on his back on a wooden bench, watching the stars and smoking a cigarette. It was a pleasant night, with only a slight bite to the wind, warded off by his woolen jacket. Jack preferred to be outside, without constraints, without limitations. He didn't have to pretend for the other steerage passengers in with whom he'd fallen. He didn't have to lie, or keep on guard, watching for threats or dangers. Fabrizio had relieved him for the night, and Jack had gone up to the top deck, to wait for the American contact who had been assigned as part of Titanic's crew.

Just then, frantic footsteps sprinted past the bench. Jack straightened, instinctively tense. Rose DeWitt-Bukater was running towards the stern, limited by a tight dress and high-heeled shoes, sobbing. Jack looked behind him, searching for a pursuer, but there was no one there. Jack followed Rose to the very back of the boat, following at a safe distance, and then swore and hurried faster, throwing caution to the winds. She had climbed over the railing and was hanging over the open ocean.

_Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She wasn't supposed to be suicidal! I hate rich people._

Aloud, he said over the roar of the sea, "Don't do it!"

Rose twisted around, still clinging to the railing. "Stay back!" she shouted…

Jack didn't understand what had happened. His mission had been to watch Rose from afar, if possible without interacting at all. And now, very much against his better judgment, he found himself in a romantic relationship with his subject. He'd heard the stories. He knew how these ended. It was better for both of them if she never saw him again. Feeling only slightly guilty, Jack formulated a plan to vanish the moment they reached New York and he knew that Rose was safe in the hands of the American agent.

So far, Lovejoy hadn't tried anything, but that didn't mean he wouldn't…

"What've you got for me, Thomas?" asked Jack, as his contact leaned inconspicuously against the railing beside him.

"No developments," said Thomas without turning his head. "Actually, though, I heard along the grapevine that Lovejoy's got a man on the bridge."

"How does that help him get to Rose?" asked Jack, and mentally kicked himself. "The subject?" he corrected.

Fortunately, Thomas didn't seem to have noticed his slip. "I honestly don't know. Keep a sharp eye." He moved off along the balcony and vanished around a corner.

Jack was kissing Rose. He was kissing his subject, the one with whom he wasn't supposed to have any contact at all. He was kissing her like he'd never kissed anyone before. (Not that he had much experience in that area; agents were forbidden from having romantic relationships.)

The boat deck shuddered, and Jack and Rose pulled apart, Jack's mind immediately jumping to bombs, and charting the route to the nearest life boat. They looked up to see a massive iceberg looming over the deck, and suddenly everything made sense. Lovejoy's lack of action, the man in the engine room. Jack knew enough about icebergs to know that only a tiny fraction of it showed about sea level. The berg was much bigger underneath, and the boat had obviously just scraped alongside it, puncturing the hull beneath the water line. But he'd had no idea how desperate Lovejoy's employers were, how far they'd been willing to go. Had they really planned to sink an entire ship for the sake of one destitute debutante? Surely not. There had to be something more, some bigger pay-off.

Of course there was. Claiming responsibility for sinking the most famous ship in history would catapult them to world-wide notoriety, striking fear into the very heart of Western Civilization. But stopping their inevitable bid for world domination was not Jack's job. All he had to do was keep Rose alive.

This proved considerably more difficult than he had anticipated. He'd felt a wonderful sense of relief as she'd been lowered to the water in the life boat, knowing his part was done. At least, that's how he'd felt until she _jumped back onto the damn boat_ and thrown herself into his arms, kindling the wrath of Mr. Hockley, inciting in him the urge to shoot at them, driving them back into the bowels of the ship and nearly trapping them to drown like rats. At that point, he was feeling rather irritable towards the DeWitt-Bukater girl.

It was time. The operation had gone slightly skewed, but Jack's plan remained in place. the life boat returned. Rose was still alive. She would be safe. Jack let himself slip under the water, eyes forced open against the stinging, salty cold, searching for the dark, bulbous shape of the specialized shortened submarine which had been stored behind the propellers. And there it was, floating out of the darkness, the occasional bubble rippling across its surface. Jack pulled himself through the water tight door.

He was greeted in the tiny cramped space by Thomas, who offered him a towel. "The girl's alive?"

Jack nodded, rubbing his head vigorously. "She got picked up for a life boat headed for the _California_," he replied in his native British accent.

"Well done," said Thomas. "Alright, let's get on home." He geared up the submarine in the direction of their check point with a government underwater base two kilometers east of them.

**A/N: Please don't hate. I know how fantastical it sounds. My only argument is, how else would Jack have been able to survive after slipping under the water? So I say a submarine is perfectly legitimate. So there. Deal with it. Unless you don't want to. In which case, **_**don't **_**deal with it. Go ahead. See if I care. 'Cause I really don't. Really. I don't care. **

**Please R/R. Rest and relaxation are healthful.**

**-esking**


End file.
